Relative Disparity
by Phoenix Satori
Summary: “I’m sorry,” Derek says, “was that ‘MacDonald?’ As in the one who had a farm?” -- Where infirm one-shots, AUs, drabbles, and p*rn of the snapshot variety come to DIE. ::Dasey::
1. dysfunctional fairytale

Formerly known as 'The Dasey Shuffle,' I've decided to make of this scrap heap a profitable, full-fledged dumping ground. Therefore, I'm re-purposing all of the drabbles and giving them each their own chapter (since I hadn't really written them to the songs I'd attached to 'em, anyway), and then I'll be _adding_ a chapter or two or three over the next few days.

I figured this'd be the appropriate place to put all those one-shots/scraps that didn't make the final cut in _USteps_, and then I'd also have a place to put all future drabbles and/or half-assed one-shots that'll never see completion.

Anyway, if you've already perused 'The Dasey Shuffle,' then you've already seen the first eleven chapters of this anthology --everything thereafter will be new material. (I have made minor adjustments to a few of the existing drabbles, however.)

Thanks to everyone whose already reviewed, by the way. Make this all worthwhile.

[behold! the only disclaimer you're going to see for this ENTIRE COLLECTION! sue me not, lady ballon, sir jeffe. i beg of thee.]

* * *

As she descends the staircase for the second time that evening, wrapped in The Dress Emily'd found (after he'd surreptitiously moved it to the end of the costume rack nearest where she'd been looking), Derek wishes (not for the first time this evening) that they'd sent someone else (like maybe her _boyfriend_, who wouldn't be faulted for staring).

When he detaches his tongue from the roof of his mouth and is able to speak past the cotton therein, he tells her she that she does, indeed, look more like an Ugly Stepsister than a Princess, but she just rolls her eyes and beams at him, and when she reaches the foot of the stairs, she loops her arm through his and (considerately) promises not to thank him, ever, for this, or ruin his reputation by revealing to anyone that he has the Capacity for Good Deeds, and just as he's about to say "Great, let's go," so he can escape her and her sparkling…ness, she leans over and pecks him on the cheek and his brain forgets to invert the images behind his eyes so they're right-side up and he's faced suddenly with the unhappy prospect of living in a world that's been flipped upside down. He actually fumbles a step, and the sound of her laughter has his stomach churning much the same way it does before a hockey game.

(He's _terrified_.)

Then they're leaving, climbing into the Prince, and he's speeding recklessly toward the high school (partly because he wants to get away from her as soon as possible, and partly because he _needs_ her to yell and scream at him –as much to re-establish some semblance of Normalcy as to fuel his sordid imaginings of her ripping his name in half while he bunches The Dress up around her hips and bends her over her desk, in her room, where he is _surrounded_ by All Things Casey—), and before he knows it they're at the dance and she's glowing and giggling as they stand before the doors to the gym, and he can't stop himself from stealing glances at her.

Then she's stepping through the cheap gauzy overhang and for several seconds he can't see anything but white, hot and fierce, and he's angry and confused when Max makes his (irritatingly prompt) entrance and she suddenly has eyes only for her 'Ivanhoe,' when seems to forget immediately that Derek is even _there_ (he wants _so badly_ to be able to do the same), but then Sally (beautiful, lovely, _not-Casey_ Sally) appears at his elbow and equilibrium is restored.

* * *

[edited 07.17.09]


	2. the prodigal stepbrother

porfiria.

* * *

She has a Test (like the 'litmus' she says, as if she expects him to know what that means) and she calls it 'the Snotty Trial' (which is no 'Purple Fog,' but still has an interesting ring to it). And it's really not all that involved, either: she brings over a Fellow (and it always seems to be the _same_ Fellow: pleasant, attentive, well-rounded, 'tall, dark, and handsome' –and also absolutely, positively clueless; not a one of them yet has appeared to understand what they're in for with Casey), sits Fellow down and forces the poor boy to interact with Derek (usually she provides them note cards with 'suggested conversation topics,' but mostly Derek improvises), and makes a decision about whether or not He is dateable based on how well the Fellow gets along with her stepbrother. If they hit it off, then clearly He is wrong for her. If, on the other hand, they cannot seem to stand one another, He is Casey-Approved.

Derek, much to Casey's increasing chagrin, is very accommodating to these boys, and gets along famously with each and every single one of them (because, really, he's just a charming sort of guy).

* * *

cheetos.


	3. there's something about casey

I'm not sure there's anything much more gratifying than Derek in Denial.

Maybe Casey in Denial.

Maybe Chair P*rn.

Maybe coffee.

* * *

It's not that big a deal, he knows, and if he can just tough it out for a month or two, then his wild teenage boy vacillations will eventually pull him –inevitably, invariably—in another direction. He's confident of this fact; confident enough that it doesn't even _really_ affect his behavior. Sure, he doesn't really bring any other girls over for a while after she moves in, and maybe he spends most of his waking hours antagonizing her, pranking her, or planning to prank and/or antagonize her (because her eyes are never more bright and blue, her cheeks never more effusively pink than when she is tearing into him), but that doesn't mean it's a Big Deal. Girls have affected him this way before (he can't recall a specific instance, necessarily, but surely, _surely_ this is not an isolated incident). This is just a bit of a…special case, is all. A _Casey_ case. Heh. That's kinda funny, actually. (Beyond it being laughable that he's attracted to her _at all_, anyway.)

His mental reassurances become tenuous and insubstantial, however, when he vomits one night after dinner, six years later, after she announces to the family that she's engaged to be married.

* * *

We author-folk make this boy do an unGODLY amount of puking.


	4. interstitial interstate

Title for this drabble ripped unabashedly from a vocabulary item I threatened into working for me after WLS left it unguarded in a review, endearingly oblivious to my dark proclivities.

(Logomania is a serious disease, folks, and I am _sick_.)

* * *

They've been walking for almost an hour and she keeps her eyes caged determinedly forward, her jaw tightening severely every few seconds or so, after every repeated declaration that they were bound to eventually happen upon a gas station '_or something_' if they just keep hugging the highway.

It's freezing outside and she hasn't got a jacket (or, well, she _did_ until Derek used it to try and clog the leaking transmission, which had very nearly resulted in Casey trying to bludgeon him to death with a tire iron), and he'd been thinking about tucking his around her shoulders (accompanied by a Very Rude Remark to offset the gesture) when she cuts an insidious look at him and remarks coldly that if he were any sort of 'gentleman,' he would've offered her his coat by now.

Which, alas, makes it immediately impossible for him to do so. (Derek Venturi would not ever wish to be mistaken for a gentleman, least of all by Casey.)

* * *

In which there is blatant tense abuse.


	5. the opposite of normal

There's a chance I may eventually finish this one. A small, puny chance mind you, but a chance nonetheless.

Enjoy.

* * *

Casey sits down, obviously shaken and on the verge of tears.

Her shrink (yes, she still has one) doesn't appear overly concerned.

"What did Derek do this week?" She begins, rather rudely in Casey's opinion.

"We….we're not…we're not fighting anymore!" And then the waterworks begin. Before her capacity to see is completely compromised, she espies her shrink flinching in surprise, and then the other woman's face transforms with an expression Casey's used to seeing at horror films. And, oh, she just _knew_ it was over, and now it _definitely_ has to be, especially if her _shrink_ is reacting this way.

"Oh, sweetie. When did this happen?" Casey produces a package of tissues from her purse (which only makes her cry harder, actually; she must have a million of the things because Derek buys a new little packet for her every time he goes to the grocery store, 'just in case' –cue wink, roguish smile—) and takes several long, gasping moments before she tries to answer the question.

"A couple of weeks at least! We haven't argued for _days_ now, he doesn't undermine my authority in front of the kids anymore, and yesterday he…he _made dinner_. Without me even asking! And it was _delicious_!" There's vague pity on her psychiatrist's face as Casey continues. "The children are _terrified_! Abby hasn't pranked anyone in at least as long as this has all been going on, and little Emma's been crying non-stop…" She feels the Hysteria edging menacingly nearer but is no longer capable of staving it off. "What if…what if he doesn't _love me_ anymore? What if he wants a divorce?! We're going to be a statistic, aren't we?! One more Canadian divorce story!" She jerks with a start. "Oh, no…what if I marry someone else? What if _my girls_ fall in love with their stepbrothers?! Oh, god, it's genetic! We're going to be one big, sick, _step_-family!" Casey's one nervous tic away from starting to pull out her hair. "Do you think he's _unhappy_?"

"Casey, dear, you've got to calm down. I'm sure there's a plausible explanation for all of this." Through the obscuring haze of tears, Casey watches the other woman make a quick note on the pad in her lap. She convinces herself that it has to be something along the lines of 'DOOMED,' in obscenely large, bold letters and starts crying even _more_ vehemently.

The other woman asks her a question that she misses initially and she asks for her to repeat it.

"Are you still having intercourse?" The tears abate abruptly and Casey stares at her blankly.

"Come on, this is _Derek_. He'll have sex with anything willing to make him a sandwich." Dawning dread has her mouth falling open. "You don't think his _secretary_ is making him sandwiches, do you? That SLUT!"

* * *

I love taking shots at Casey's sanity just about as much as I enjoy taking shots at Derek's intelligence.

Indubitably.


	6. gravity wins again

The porn that Could've Been, But Then Wasn't.

* * *

And here's what the situation looks like: Casey's got (very long) legs wrapped around you, and her hands are gripping (_hard_) at fabric which you're not entirely sure you really need (now, or ever), and she's breathing like she's just run a marathon, which you can see and hear _and_ feel, because the length of you is pressed against her, pinning her between yourself and the wall, and you suffer through a moment of existential lucidity that has (somewhat) to do with the name you wear ripped from her throat in something of a sultry-husky-breathy-sex voice and also (more prominently, you implore of whoever might be listening) the misleading influence of disreputable, inebriating substances –and, in the baffling moment that passes between when the two of you are stepsiblings and when the universe decides (in an instant of truly, _truly_ black humor) that your knees should suddenly give out on you and that you should both go crashing spectacularly (in a heap of limbs and yelps and unhelpfully, perfectly-aligned pelvises) to the ground, Something in your mind slides carefully, _firmly_ into place, and nothing will ever be the same again.

* * *

(second-person ftw!)


	7. unwitting revelation

Derek's not sure how these things keep happening.

* * *

"Well, you _warned_ them, didn't you?"

"Of _course_ I warned them, Derek. It's _you_!"

"Then it's their own fault for not listening to your sound advice. I'm sure they were made sufficiently aware that I'm dead inside."

"I _know_ you're not trying to suggest they should have _known _better! You did that 'charming conman' act that you _know_ we can't resist –"

"'We?'" He lifts a brow at her. She meets his gaze without flinching and he is inexplicably irritated.

"There are some things—"

"Like the fact of my irresistibility—"

"—that no amount of science or philosophy can explain. Nature just messed up somewhere along the way. Or maybe it's just selecting for idiots for some reason." She looks contemplative, as if she's actually mulling over the implications.

"Thanks-much, sis—"

"Step-sis," she says automatically, jarringly, having apparently been snapped out of her thoughts at the prompt. He blinks at her before he continues.

"…but the point is that they were given fair notice of my—"

"Short-comings? Built-in Jerk Features? Slovenly appearance? Total disregard for other people's feelings or property? General repugnance? You're darn right they were." She keeps interrupting him and it's beginning to be rather annoying.

"—dating ethics, I was gonna to say, but it's good to know you were thorough." He wishes she wouldn't pace back and forth in front of him like she was his mother and had the _right _to be lecturing him in this way. "They knew it would happen and they jumped in with both feet, anyway. I'm notoriously casual, Case—"

"Notoriously _selfish_, you mean…" She mumbles, rolling her eyes, and this is getting old very quickly.

"Can't be held responsible for my overwhelming allure."

"_You_ went after _them_!"

"They were perfectly well capable of telling me 'no.'"

"Two of them _did_! But Derek, if a guy comes back when they're turned down it's generally assumed it's because there's some sort of _actual interest_ in the girl."

"That doesn't change the fact that they came into the situation with all the facts. They made an informed choice, Casey. It's democracy in action! You should be proud I'm taking such an active interest in the political process." He lets his smile slide to smug.

"You used _coercion_! There was under-the-table dealing, promises made and not delivered! Conspiracies! You should be thrown in prison!"

"I didn't force them into anything and I _certainly_ didn't promise them anything." She rubs at the bride of her nose in aggravation.

"Let me put it to you this way, Derek. If you're only going to keep breaking their hearts, then _stop dating my friends_. You _are_ aware that there are literally _hundreds_ of girls on this campus outside of my circle of friends? Just take your pick!" He props his chin against his fist and feigns a lazy expression, quickly suppressing the swell of pride at her (likely unintentional) insinuation that he could have any girl he wanted. (Well…not _any girl_.)

"Sure, I could do that, but it wouldn't bother you if I did, and where is the fun in _that_?" There has to have been something wrong with the way he said that, he thinks, because the expression she's wearing is…disconcerting.

"You mean you…you've only been dating my friends to…to _bother_ me?" There's something in her eyes that tells him she's reading into this incorrectly.

"That's _one_ reason, yes. The other is that your friends are _hot_. Two birds, one stone, so on and so forth." He doesn't like the suspiciously sly look that creeps onto her face, and he _especially_ doesn't enjoy the 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' flavor it possesses.

He narrows his eyes apprehensively when she takes one very deep, calming breath and smiles softly at him. The diatribe appears to be over, and he's not sure how to feel about how abruptly this had come about.

"You know," she says, appraising him loftily, "there are plenty of ways to…bother me _without_ involving others."

And then, after this exceedingly cryptic proclamation, she turns to leave, and Derek is left trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

* * *

Casey didn't even need an Epiphany Toilet!


	8. service with a smile

My favorite coffee house cameos. Props, Java Hut, my dearest friend.

* * *

"The service here is _abysmal_," Ashley tells her, "but the waiters are cute, at least. Probably on purpose, admittedly, but hey, I'm a Pretty-Packaging sorta gal." Casey laughs warmly as they walk into the poorly lighted coffee house. "And there's this one guy in particular –oh, Casey. He's got this totally-on-purpose messy hair, these big, brown eyes, this deep voice that _grates_…I really hope he's here…" Casey has this unexplained feeling of foreboding as Ashley tips open the door and steps into The Java Hut; a feeling which is instantly rewarded when the bane of her existence steps toward them with an enormous, smug-bastard grin.

Dimly (over the sound of the universe guffawing), she's aware of Ashley speaking again,

"Casey, this is Derek Venturi. Derek, this is Casey. Casey McDonald." She's all smiles, and so appears to be largely unaware of Casey's smile snapping taut and Derek's curving maliciously into a smirk.

Then Derek holds out a hand for Casey to shake. Belatedly, she reaches out to grab it, squeezing probably a great deal more firmly than propriety requires.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, "was that '_Mac_Donald?' As in the one who had a farm?"

* * *

...


	9. gin engenders peril

The one-shot from which I (valiantly) rescued this vignette featured _aliens_. From _space_.

I shit you not.

* * *

"Are we…are we _flirting_?" She giggles insanely and he hates himself for thinking that it's…cute. (Which is probably _more _insane.)

"You _wish_." Even though they're alone in his dorm room, sitting beside each other on his bed, (almost-sort-of) Not Fighting for what is perhaps the first time since they'd been introduced, with nothing but a few inches and a bottle of dry gin separating them.

While he's trying to figure out a more appropriate label for this anomalous occasion, she settles her thigh against his and challenges him to show her some of his 'moves,' citing 'morbid, disgusting curiosity' as her justification when he gawks at her in open disbelief. And he's just about to tell her no (absolutely-not-never-ever-not-even-on-pain-of-death) when she takes another swig from the bottle and some of the crystal-thick liquor dribbles down her chin and tumbles over her collarbone and down her chest, disappearing into her cleavage.

So instead, he bows toward her, reaches up to sweep her hair gently over her ear and completes the circuit by lightly grazing his fingers along her jaw, knuckles ghosting over the graceful line of her throat. He has her full attention (and she his, but that's beside the point), and he whispers something that breaks so completely from anything in his repertoire that he isn't sure, at first, that he actually said it at all,

"Casey," (tremblingly, breaking somewhere in the middle) "_please_," (the rasp shakes and quivers and shatters) "please let me kiss you." And even as he's trying to wrap his mind around the concept of having _asked_ for what he is usually simply _offered_, she's drawing perilously nearer to him and his heart is racing _way_ past the speed limit and someone's going to pull him over any minute now and stop him from crashing, from going down in flames at the mercy of this blue-eyed siren, and her lips are one impulsive decision away and—

"You are…" She leans closer and he _stops breathing_, "…_such_ a dork. That line actually works?" She 'binks' his nose with a finger and he gapes at her stupidly. "The eyebrow thing, though," She arches hers conspiratorially and his heart leaps into his throat; he chokes it back and thinks it's a very good trick (he'll probably be showing it off at the next party he goes to), "very effective. Almost had me for a minute." She laughs and now Derek can't even be _angry_ with her anymore (because she's _glowing_ suddenly –probably means she's radioactive). "Till I remembered you're _Derek_, anyway."

Damn it all.

* * *

(_Aliens_! What the hell was I thinking...?)


	10. this probably counts as first base

Further proof that babies are never good news.

* * *

"Derek." Casey says, and her eyes reach out and yank his gaze to hers and he almost automatically responds with a '_what_?' before he remembers he doesn't care. "Derek." She says again, and this time she does this half-bouncing thing next to him, her chin jutting forward and her mouth pulled into a pout, as if she thinks he can be enticed by such a childish ploy. "_De-reeeek._" And he's flashing (unbidden) back to Keener Casey, the girl he swore he was leaving behind after graduation, and then her hand is on his thigh, and she Looks at him, and he's responding before he has the chance to stop himself.

"Casey." He keeps his eyes on her face even though the only thing he can focus on at the moment is the weight of her palm against his leg.

"We're going to be in our _thirties_ when the baby is Edwin and Lizzie's age _now_."

"_That's_ what you've been thinking about this whole time?"

"It doesn't _bother_ you that one of our siblings is going to be a total stranger? That we'll be adults, maybe with kids of our own, by the time he or she is almost finished with _high school_?" He doesn't mean to actually consider the notion, but he does, and he supposes it _is_ a bit odd.

"Guess it is kinda strange that we're never gonna get to know the kid." She sits back (and her hand slides up, and he wills himself not to jerk or fidget), a little sullen.

"I know! It's _so_ weird." A few seconds later, "You know what else is weird?"

"That you, magically, never stop talking?" She hardly even seems to hear him.

"That kid is going to have McDonald _and_ Venturi blood." He looks at her for a long moment. She's the first one to shuffle her glance away.

"For it's sake, then, it'd better be a boy." She looks back at him, insulted.

"Why's that?" She queries, in a tone of voice that suggests he'd better be careful with his answer. (He blithely ignores the implicit warning.)

"Because from what I've seen, _all_ the women in the McDonald line are _crazy_."

"Hey!" He gives her a sincerely started glance. (Was she even aware that she'd just _squeezed_ his _thigh_?)

"You don't think I…I wasn't talking about _you_, Case." She blinks at him stupidly.

"R-really…?" He puts a well-meaning hand on her shoulder (and he becomes aware, in a flash of disquieting insight, of just how _much_ they touch each other).*

"Of _course_ not. See, including you in the 'woman' category would be almost like admitting that we're part of the same species." He throws himself sideways when she swipes at him, bringing the pillow behind him forward to use as a crude shield.

* * *

*I'm pretty sure I stole this from someone else. I can't remember who, but I'm almost certain that it's not mine. (If it be yours, please lemme know and I shall credit where credit is due!)


	11. hand doubling as an entendre

This dribble-drabble is for WLS, who once had the MARVELOUS idea of drunk!Casey and sober!Derek playing strip poker. I _tried_ to write it out, but it is just...madness. But here's an itty-bitty taste of the only part I liked, all the same.

* * *

And suddenly his _entire goddamn world_ revolves around that button and the fingers virtuously, selflessly granting it precious freedom. He's leaning forward, he knows he is and he can't (and doesn't _try_ to) stop himself. He feels light, impossibly heavy, dizzy, tense, coiled tight. His breath feels suddenly moist, like steam, his skin feels suddenly dry. The edges of everything are fraying, roughening, until its just an abstract swirl of color wrapped around the image of Casey pulling off her shirt, self-conscious though brazen when she drops it to the floor and drags his gaze to hers.

"Your hand, Derek." And he's offering it to her without a thought, until she giggles and points to the cards in the opposite hand. "Your _hand_, Derek. The one with diamonds and spades, not the one with fingers." Mindlessly, his eyes glued to the red lace of her bra, he lays his cards flat on the table, aware that he has won this round only insofar as it means that she's about to lose another article of clothing.

* * *

Coffeecoffeecoffee


	12. i'll have the caffeinated keener, please

This kid was originally slotted to be a part of the 'midterms' storyline in _USteps_, but I couldn't decide how to finish it and it simply wasn't strong enough to stand on its own. Anyway, even though this vignette very obviously lacks...substance or import, I think it makes a nice (if strange) little snippet of a scene nevertheless.

* * *

"What IS that?" He points, horror-struck, at the colossal container she lifts from her bag.

"Just a jug of coffee."

"No, Casey, _that_ is a _tankard_ of coffee." She glances at him curiously.

"I didn't know you knew that word." She sounds _proud_.

He's going to be sick.

"I've just never had reason go _use_ it before. I'm not an _idiot_." She chuckles softly.

"Oh, you." She slides a slow wink at him and it's absolutely the un-hottest thing he's ever seen. Definitely. (But maybe he wants a drink of water just for the hell of it.) "That's what I like about you, kid. You've got optimism." He tries very hard not to laugh because it's dorky, but definitely sort of funny. Laughing is an encouraging behavior, and Derek thinks it's best not to encourage Casey to tell jokes. Or indicate that he is, in any way, enjoying her company. He can't help the smile (the damn thing ninjas its way onto his face), though, and shakes his head as he shoots his thumb in the direction of kitchen and starts off ahead of her.

She follows at a slower clip, apparently burdened by her load, but she's definitely playing it up to try and guilt him into helping her. (Because clearly she's never met him before.) He reaches the sink and turns to look back at her, still on her way, stepping cautiously to try and drag this ridiculous charade out for as long as it will go. He crosses his arms and leans back against the sink, armed with a devastating half-smirk, cocked-brow combination as she drops it all with a huff onto the counter and glares up at him.

He muses off-handedly that there's really no one else like her; only _she_ can make such trifling offenses so enormously rewarding to commit. Idly, he wonders if he'd screw with her as much if she didn't make it so much fun. Probably he wouldn't. Certainly he wouldn't make such effort.

(Um.)

"So, care to explain why we need a life-sized coffee tub?"

"That's a stupid comment. Everything's life-sized." She says philosophically, and starts unpacking her groceries. (He tries not to be alarmed at how easily she navigates his kitchen.) "We _always_ have to have lots of coffee," she explains, and then seems to understand at the same time he does that that comment had come perilously close to referring to the topic that the Unspoken Agreement dictated they would never bring up: that this was a _thing_ that happened. A _thing_ that entailed the both of them tolerating each other's presence for an extended amount of time. A _thing_ of…mutual codependence, or something else equally as horrifying. "It's the only thing that can keep someone like _you_ awake long enough to get anything done. Well," she adds after a moment, smiling wryly, "the only _legal_ thing."

"Meth dealer out of town?"

"My Ritalin guy, too." He blinks because he hadn't been expecting her to play along. Huh. "Anyway, thought I'd bring a share to contribute to the cause. Besides, your coffee is _terrible_."

"Hey now, I make a _mean_ cup of coffee. My roast just gets caught up in the middle of some serious biological warfare between the milk and the…well, whatever that mushy stuff in the corner was before it was mushy stuff." She turns up her nose, and he thinks it's amazing how utterly _un_-cute one person can be. It's almost unbearable.

"There is a reason they put expiration dates on things, Derek."

"S'what I hear, but I missed that day in school, so the whole concept is still sorta fuzzy."

"You missed lots of those sorts of days in school, didn't you?" He smirks.

"Not the ones where they taught us about the exciting differences between boys and girls." He flashes her a roguish smirk. 'Course," he smiles fondly off into the distance, caught by a pleasant memory, "the couch was just about as good an…'educational platform' as anything we were taught in class." She lifts a brow and he finds it highly disturbing for some reason. (Maybe because it's the same expression she was wearing when she she'd said, 'Danger? Danger is my _middle name_,' and then promptly, excitedly pulled out two crust-less cucumber sandwiches she'd prepared for their first joint sneaking out endeavor. Point is, there's a dreadful hint of camaraderie hidden in the expression, and he doesn't like that one bit.)

"Pig," she says, but there's no _feeling_ in it. He's offended. Where is that good old- fashioned Casey rage? This is becoming scarily more like playful bantering than (the familiar comfort of) simple, honest bickering. He starts laying plans to remedy the situation.

"What's with all the shots at my intelligence, anyway? I got into the same school _you_ did, remember?" She seems confused for a moment.

"It feels like an insult, _sounds_ like an insult, but is startlingly, not an insult." She shakes her head. "Anyway, I'm kind of _counting_ on you being an idiot. That's the whole reason this studying thing even works." And just in case that may have been _another_ acknowledgement that this was sort-of-routine now, she swiftly changes the topic. "So! What subject did you wanna start with? The order of our exams doesn't coincide exactly, since there're those two classes we don't share, so I thought maybe we could start with them. It'll give me a chance to figure out how well you know the material, and allow me to adjust our schedule accordingly…" She lays a finger against her chin, her brow crinkling thoughtfully while she continues to ramble almost indistinctly to herself.

Derek watches, bemused, as she spins off into what he can only describe as a sort of Keener Trance, her eyes glazed over in thought, toe tapping a-rhythmically against the tile, lip an absent prisoner between white teeth, and he forgets (a little) about the Disturbing Harmony of the moment, setting the intention to destroy it temporarily on the backburner with the solemn promise to revisit the notion when she emerges from her Nerd Blather. (Derek would never be one to disdain Procrastination.)

* * *

I own that very tankard of coffee Casey dragged into Derek's apartment. It is every bit as immensely-dimensioned as it sounds. I've been asking around for applications for its Autonomous Statehood for a while now. No word from my local representatives thus far.


	13. definition theater

Another ickle one-shot that didn't make the final cut for _USteps_, wherein the 'pool' of which Derek drunkenly speaks in 'katzenjammer kids' is brought to light. (Just in case you were curious, 'katzenjammer' means hangover.)

I was pretty alright with the way it turned out, but it's too blippie, has some continuity issues that I didn't feel like taking the time to iron out, and (like most things I write) it just doesn't end very strongly. Feel free to consider this part of the _USteps_ universe, though.

* * *

"Dude, she's _hot_." Josh says it almost reverently, eyes glued to the boards just out of his line of sight.

Derek flicks his gaze sideways even though he's pretty sure the asshole's just trying to distract him for long enough to steal the puck, and there's Casey on the other side of the glass. His brain blinks and Josh is already flying across the ice with the puck, but Derek manages to trip him up before he can line himself up for the shot (what can he say? he's fast. and good. it's why all the boys want to be him and all the girls just plain want him), and then there's a brief struggle for possession. (Which he, inevitably, wins.)

"Can't believe I fell for that, _again_." He grouses, lifting a hand to signal the end of play, and the couple of other Gaels who'd stayed for extra time on the ice after practice skated off ahead of Josh and himself, retrieving equipment as they went. Josh, the only other starting freshman, falls into rhythm beside him when he (slowly, begrudgingly) begins to make his own way off the rink.

"Don't beat yourself up, dude! Least this time there actually was a hot babe—"

"Ugh. _No_. Not even."

"Dude, you blind? That girl is a _stone fox_."

"You're confusing 'fox' with 'gargoyle.' Easy mistake to make." He doesn't even have to glance over to know he's getting the 'are you insane?' look.

"You sure you weren't concussed in last night's game? I think maybe you should go lie down…" Derek rolls his eyes.

"I'm allowed not to find _every_ girl attractive."

"It's like I don't even know you." Josh turns to him with a serious expression. "Are you an imposter?"

"Guess it was only a matter of time before you found me out." Derek shrugs noncommittally. "I do have to kill you now, though." He throws his teammate a bored look. "Nothing personal." Josh nods sagely.

"Damn my superior powers of deception."

"Perception." Josh, he thinks, may be proof that people like Ralph are the standard instead of the exception. It is a discouraging thought.

"Right, that." Josh pauses. "Your perception is clearly busted, D. Because there's a name for that kind of girl: '_babe_.'" Derek's stomach hurts.

"That's so disgusting I can't even begin to explain it." Silence descends and Derek takes this to mean that the conversation is over. It is a brief, happy moment.

"Ahhhh, I get it." He has a sly look that Derek doesn't get. "She's an ex, huh?"

"What?" Derek is scandalized. "No!"

"Dude, either you're gay –and you should totally let me know in that case so I know whether or not I need to start tying my soap to a rope in the showers," Derek shoves him into the wall and Josh laughs like it's the funniest joke ever, "or she's an ex and you're no longer able to find her attractive because she's…psychotic or broke your heart or some shit." Derek's considering suicide.

"_Or_ she's my _sister_." Josh chuckles. "_Step_-sister, anyway." He corrects, for no reason at all. "Ugh, the idea of being actually _related_ to her…" Now Josh is staring at him funny. He has the eerie impression of _awareness_ in the other boy's usually endearingly vacant expression, and a hollow queasiness nicks out a space in his stomach to start making trouble.

"Dude, that is _sick_." Derek grimaces because it sounds to him like Josh means the _good_ kind of 'sick.'

"What are you talking about?" Josh looks back at him, lifts a brow in the patented vernacular of Dudespeak. "You think I _like_ her?"

"Man, yeah, why not? If she were _my_ step-sis, there would be some hardcore explicit relations going on." Derek is pissed and isn't sure he has cause to be.

"I think what you mean is 'illicit' relations."

"Sure. That, too."

"_That_ is 'sick,' Joshy-boy." His teammate grins knowingly (which Derek _seethes at_ because this man-child shouldn't have enough IQ points to pull off that expression in the first place), and he thinks he might actually have to make good on his threat and kill this moron.

While he's mulling it over, he realizes Josh is trying to get his attention.

"What?"

"I _said_, what's her name?" Derek considers not sharing the information. What the hell does Josh need to know her name for, anyway? He's never going to know her. Not if he knows what's good for him.

(…what?)

"Casey." Josh immediately deadpans. "What?"

"_She's_ 'Casey?'" Josh shakes his head and starts laughing again. "Man, why didn't you just say so in the first place?" Derek looks at him in stark bewilderment and growing unease.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dude, '_Casey McDonald_?' The girl you _never_ shut up about?"

"I _complain_ about her a lot, if that's what you're getting at. But there's a _reason _for that. She's the most annoying person on the planet. Totally insane. We're talking Guinness Book of World Records crazy."

"Sure, man. I believe you. It's just that you talk about her way, way more than you bother to even _mention_ other girls." He pauses. "Man, I really wish you'd told us you were step-sibs earlier. This's gonna affect the pool." Derek stops dead.

"The _what_?" Josh is _way_ too amused by all of this.

"Don't worry about it, D. I'm just fooling—"

"Joshua, that _master_ prank I was telling you about last week? Still haven't gotten the chance to follow through with it; I'd be happy to try it out on _you_ if—" Josh's eyes widen significantly and he holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Fine, man. Calm down, calm down. There's just a…small…ish…uh…" Josh clears his throat, "very tiny, totally unimportant round of betting going on to see how long it'd be till, uh…you know, till you two…er, finally just have sex already." Derek _freezes_.

And because Casey has Absolutely the Worst Timing Ever, _Always_, she rounds the boards nearest the rink's exit (from which the two of them are currently emerging), flagging them down as obnoxiously as she ever does anything, and as she's racing toward them (probably to head off any escape attempts he might or might not have been deciding to make), he feels the hard, abrupt pressure of a palm smacking flat between his shoulder blades.

"Ugh –_dude_, what the _hell_—" Josh appears already to have forgotten the danger he'd been in mere seconds before, because when Derek meets his gaze, the dimwit is sporting the biggest, goofiest, _stupidest_ smile he's ever seen.

"Don't do anything _I _wouldn't do, D." The cretin stage-whispers, and turns to abandon him just as Casey stops at his side.

"You are that deadest of dead men." He vows, glowering, before the wall of vanilla slams into him and pulls his gaze (damn it, damn it, _damn it_--) to Casey.

"What was that about?" She asks harmlessly, and Derek glares at her.

"Josh's promising future as a corpse."

* * *

I love Ralph.


	14. terms of surrender

The exposition has committed hara-kiri in the rear vestibule. We found this traumatized dialogue trembling in the corner, and decided to exploit it for profit.

Now I have enough pockey to feed all the children in my sweat shop! Truly, my munificence knows no bounds.

* * *

"Hey, Casey."

"Hm?"

"I have a proposition for you."

"Yes?"

"Stop getting dressed."

"…_and_…?"

"And…um, I'll help you out of what you've already put back on?"

"Um, Derek."

"Yes, sister-dearest?"

"That's not a proposition."

"Not 'just' a proposition, you mean. And you're right. It's the sort of proposition that ends with sex, so it's the _best_ sort of proposition."

"No, Derek, it's the sort of proposition that is actually a command. You could _ask me nicely_, you know, and maybe I'd be more accommodating."

"Yes, but I like this relationship much better when I tell you to do things and you obey me unquestioningly."

"Der—"

"It's _hot _when that happens."

"_When_ has that _ever_ happened?"

"…the point I'm trying to make here, Casey, is that I only agreed to date you because I thought that making you my girlfriend would mean that I don't have to _ask_ you for sex anymore—"

"When did you _ask_ to begin with?"

"Why do you want to make me _start_?"

"Because--"

"I'm not going to like this answer, am I?"

"Because we're dating now."

"And that means, what exactly?"

"That your wishes are subordinate to mine."

"Wha—"

"Also that you have to start showering every day, because if you think you're coming anywhere _near _me after you've been…being yourself all day, then you are sadly mistaken."

"Wait, now you're laying out _rules_?"

"I haven't even scratched the surface, my darling, sweetie, hug-a-bear."

"Are you trying to _emasculate_ _me_?"

"I—"

"Don't answer that question. And let me be perfectly clear here; are you saying that us seeing each other means that you get to start making decisions for me, telling me what to do, so on and so forth?"

"I wouldn't put it _quite_ like that, but essentially, yes, that is what I'm saying."

"Casey, Casey, Casey."

"Er --Derek, you were holding your own just fine there on the bed. There's no need to make this confrontation physical. S-stay back!"

"Why's that, little sister?"

"Because you're _naked_!"

"Lucky you."

"You're _still naked_!"

"It _is_ the traditional attire for the activities I have planned."

"De-_rek_!"

"Ca-_sey_! You haven't seemed to mind the naked part for the past five or six months."

"Yes, but…but it's…_morning_!"

"Casey…"

"_What_, you horrible, pants-less _cretin_?"

"It's bad enough that we have to pretend to like each other occasionally because we're 'dating' now, and it's worse still that sometimes, I'm beginning to suspect we actually _do_ like each other, but if I have to put up with your insane expectations of me treating you like anything other than a seriously hot annoyance, then you're sure as hell gonna have to work on being naked as often as possible, most _especially_ when I'm nice enough to politely suggest it."

"You mean demand it."

"This way, our power struggle –sorry, our _relationship_ has a comfortable balance."

"Derek—"

"So now, you take off your clothes, and I'll pretend –really, _really_ believably—that I'm enjoying the show. I may even forget to swallow a few times for effect. How considerate am _I_?"

"You're awfully smug for a disgusting pervert."

"Only 'cause I know I'm gonna get what I want."

"_What_? You think this conversation is anywhere _near_ over? Why on _earth_ would you think I'd make it this _easy_ for you?"

"Casey, you don't make _anything_ easy for _anybody._ But even if I have to stand here and bicker in the nude with you for another few minutes, I think we both know where this ends: with you, screaming at me while you try to tear the flesh from my back. I'm pretty excited about that part, actually."

"Now I'm _definitely_ not going to sleep with you."

"Sure you are, Case."

"Oh, and _why's that_, Derek?"

"Because we're dating."

"Meaning _what_, exactly?"

"That I own you."

"Now, that is just bullshi—"

* * *

There can be only one reason why the conversation (battle!) ends so abruptly.

...

Meanwhile.

Promised new chapters of things are forth-coming, friends. (And I know I've still got new chapters/reviews to get to, and I _will_, very soon; I'm just trying to catch up on lots of things at the moment as I was without internet for a debilitating period.)


	15. nobody move, or the pastry gets it

This is only here in the fic dump because I'm not too thrilled with the way it ended. Otherwise, I'm pretty proud of it.

(this is set during their first semester of college, but was never intended to be part of _USteps_. i'm just particularly fond of the 'college setting' for dasey fic, i suppose.)

* * *

"You know what would make this Thanksgiving even better?"

"…chocolate turkeys?"

"No, numbskull." He's a bit surprised to see off-handed amusement in such close quarters with her glare. "Being at home with the family." But he's even _more_ surprised when she gives him this long, considering look, glower dropping off her face entirely, overthrown by this distant, sort of nostalgic expression that makes him distinctively uncomfortable. "I miss my mom." She tells him, and then sucks in a sharp breath, shock and bewilderment flying across her face, like she can't believe that actually came out of her mouth. In front of _him_ –because this is the part where he lobs some unsympathetic and rude and potentially hurtful jibe at her, the ridicule a (necessary) punishment for her lapse, her moment of unwitting vulnerability and attempted camaraderie.

(It's nothing personal. They both have their scripts to follow.)

"And I hear you used to wet the bed, too." He holds a hand to his heart at her look of wounded indignation. "I'm sorry, I thought we were sharing all of your embarrassing secrets!" It's too far – he immediately perceives that he's crossed a line. (Disturbingly, the insight excites him.)

"Well, forgive me for _caring_ about my family!" She rails, blushing furiously. "I am allowed to experience feelings of loss when I'm apart from the people I love! You can't make fun of me for _having emotions_!" Casey stomps toward her purse, and it occurs to him that she might be intending to leave, so he intercepts her halfway to her destination. He doesn't touch her or (consciously) try to stop her or anything nearly so drastic, but he discovers the lynch pin for the grenade of her fury in his pocket in the form of a tiny, rubber, rainbow-bedecked bouncy-ball and he…he can't just _not_ throw it at her.

It binks soundlessly against her temple and then rebounds immediately, veering off at a severe angle and disappearing into the kitchen. She freezes, locked stiff with fury, and he tacks on a finishing flourish,

"Does the satisfaction following a hilarious accomplishment count as an emotion? If so, then I am _feeling_ it, Casey."

"You…psychologically _damaged_ jerk!" An instant later, she's bolting into the kitchen –hot on the trail of Sir Bounce-a-Lot, he figures—and he follows at a more leisurely pace, hands smugly snuggled into his pockets.

He doesn't anticipate her coming back around the corner at Battering Speed, and the next thing he knows he's crashing to the floor, blind, face suddenly shrouded by a gloppy mass of dark, mysteriously sticky warmth (which smells curiously of apples and cinammon). There are other confusions, too, like the soft weight of Girl laid out on top of him, and the whispering caress of silky hair against his neck. Before he has time to do much more than register the presence of these peculiarities, she's hurriedly scrambling off of him, and he sits up automatically, carefully peeling the slippery Assault-Solid from his face and coming away with a pie tin, now home only to warm, inedible mush.

(What _is_ it about girls and their thoughtless _wasting of pie_?!)

Half-crazed at the _tragedy_ of it all, he leaps to his feet just as she makes it to the kitchen, and she squeals when she turns and sees him coming (_fast_), hopping nearly a foot into the air when she tosses the yams at him over one shoulder in her desperate flight away from him. He narrowly avoids the platter smacking into his chest, and unswervingly ignores the sickening 'splat' of it against the floor.

Casey grabs the mashed potates and another pie on her way back into the living room, and he has the presence of mind –_barely_—to pick up the first container that comes into his hands when he gives chase.

"De-_rek_!" She shrieks, making a circuit of the couch, "_Don't_!" They're at opposite ends of the sofa now, and he's smirking craftily at her, one hand shoveled into (what feels to his learned fingers like) the stuffing, balling the thick, bready concoction into a thick, bready projectile in the cradle of his fist.

"Don't _what_, Case?" His smirk decides that it wants to be an amused sneer instead, and her weight sinks to her knees in response, readying her to spring away at an instant's notice. "Can dish it out, can't take it; should've known. Classic Casey." He (literally) turns the other cheek, (intentionally) giving her his unguarded profile, and a quarter of a heartbeat later, something lumpy-splushy (and smelling distinctly of butter) adheres itself to his temple. The grin he slices toward her is positively _feral_.

"NO!" She squeals, fleeing again as his missile-laden fist emerges from the stuffing. His aim is impeccable, of course, but she ducks at the last second, the evasion more a combination of luck and slipping on the carpet than any sort of skill, and (unlike the Meatloaf of Old) the stuffing explodes against the wall with an insanely gratifying 'SMACK.'

Her graceless fumble (miraculously) doesn't end with her sprawled on the floor, but it _does_ waste several precious seconds, time he uses to close the distance between them. At the last second, with a panicked glance over her shoulder, she realizes he's bearing down on her, that it's too late to try and make another break for it, so she twirls, instead, (chocolate!) pie held meaningfully aloft, blue eyes burning with both shaking dread and dire warning.

For maybe five seconds, they are at an impasse.

On the one hand, Casey must pay for her thoughtless crimes against nature. On the other, there is a _chocolate pie_ at stake in this contest. An innocent, hapless, _heavenly-smelling_ chocolate pie, which is guilty of nothing more than being at the wrong place at the wrong time. But…he knows the pie would want him to soldier bravely onward, that it wouldn't want to be _used_ in such a vulgar manner, as an unwitting hostage, standing between him and Squishy Victory Over Casey.

Sighing, he bids a silent, heartfelt farewell to the noble pastry, and then it is, once again, _on_.

* * *

[**ten minutes later...**]

Ten minutes later…

Derek's on top of her, panting, her name a hoarse whisper falling from his lips, warm as it drags haltingly against her cheek. His eyes are dark, filled with ominous mirth when he drops his weight (slowly, slowly, _slowly_) against her, his knee wedging firmly between her thighs, and the explosive sensation arches her spine (involuntarily), which has still further unintended consequences, such as Derek cursing gruffly when their bodies slam together, and Casey whimpering urgently as she slides against his leg.

It occurs to her that this is probably not the way food fights are supposed to happen.

"What –what're you doing, Derek?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Case? I'm making an inspired attempt to salvage this perfectly good pie you've wasted." His teeth close gently over the lobe of her ear, his tongue the flickering warmth over its tip, making her tingle with electric heat to her very core. "I suppose," he breathes in exasperation, "since you made it, you should probably have a taste as well." His tongue slides over her clavicle, smearing chocolate as it goes, and she doesn't even know what it is he's said until he's pulled away, watching her smugly. "Lookie, Spacey, I'm learning to _share_. Isn't it just…" He's so close she's gone cross-eyed, "…_pathetic_?"

He kisses her then, with a sort of frenzied enthusiasm that seems almost desperate, as if he's been wanting this as long as she has –which is, of course, not possible.

"Casey," he breathes, his knee grinding into her, and when she recovers from being temporarily blind, it's to the image of him hovering over her, looking somewhat stunned and definitely captivated. "You have _no idea_ how long I've wanted this." He tells her, and then sucks in a sharp breath, irritated confusion flying across his face, like he can't believe that actually came out of his mouth. In front of _her_ –because this is the part where she uses the opening to punish him with the according 'tit' for his previous 'tat.'

(It's nothing personal. They both have their scripts to follow.)

"Derek," her fingers tangle in his hair, and she can feel him shaking, "I just want to say…" she brushes her lips against his throat, thrilled at the way he jerks in response, "I _told_ you we'd have our Feel Good Family Moment someday."

Their first Thanksgiving away from home is…not so bad.

* * *

The entirety of this fic came by sudden inspirational force of _Penny Arcade_, from which all Good Things spring forth from the BOILING WOMB OF THE EARTH. [--behold my agglutinative excess of prepositional phrases!] Here's the link to the specific strip (you have to remove the spaces):

http : // www . penny-arcade . com / comic / 2005 / 9 / 23 /

The short of the long of it is that I love that webcomic (with all of my logomaniacal, nerdcore heart), and you should, too. There's a shit-ton of insider gamer humor, definitely, but the true beauty of theis comic is that it permeates all walks of Nerd –from the gamer to the couch potato to the rabid fanfic author hunched over in the basement, yearning for the life-giving light of the sun.

And, um. This is all very much beside the point.


	16. a series of unfortunate events

I think this's one of the first things I wrote for this fandom, all the way back during Spring Break, when I initially found LwD (via a fic snappleducated'd written, and I'd had to read because it's _snapple, _for pie's sake). I've forgotten if I'd planned to do anything else with it, so...here's this, I guess.

* * *

_What'd you do last night_, Sam wants to know.

Such a seemingly innocuous question, which, on any other day, would've been easy enough answer. But as of a week ago, he'd acquired a trio of the only sort of female he has absolutely zero interest in having around: _family_.

He figures he probably shouldn't tell his friend that he spent a not-unimpressive chunk of the evening raiding his new step-sister's (rather shocking) underwear drawer (a strictly reconnaissance sort of venture), so he skips ahead to the next item on the previous night's list of events.

…only to realize that he'd spent the following half-hour essentially stalking that very same new step-sister throughout the house (strictly for the sake of harassment and provocation), conveniently appearing at optimal moments to surprise her. (Fascinatingly, she'd exploded at him _every single time_, each reaction slightly more volatile than the last. He'd wondered if he could push her over the edge that very evening.)

Then, after dinner (during which he'd antagonized her endlessly), when she'd come upstairs to demand that he give up his room, that he willingly cede his sacred territory to her and her 'need for privacy and personal space' (which she will learn quickly are gone forever now that she lives with _him_), and tried to banish him to Edwin's attic pad, they'd argued for…well, it'd felt like a long while, but he'd lost track of time at some point and wasn't totally sure –and that was all _before_ they'd started rolling around on his bed, tearing at each other in earnest. He doesn't suppose he should mention all the heavy breathing or inadvertent, inappropriate touching, and he probably especially shouldn't call any attention to the fact that she'd straddled him at least seven times, or that he'd bitten her.

(He's also planning to keep under wraps the curious way she'd ripped his name in half when he'd pinned her, and the terrifying heat it had catalyzed, but that's only because he'd prefer to have that wiped from his memory as soon as possible.)

And later, that unfortunate incident in the bathroom had occurred, when they'd apparently _both_ forgotten that there were new people they were now having to share a living space with, and they found themselves on opposite sides of the restroom threshold, both clad only in towels. (Well, _she'd_ been wrapped in the floor mat. Details.)

Well, he muses, it won't be the first time he's lied to Sam. (Nor the last, he imagines.)

"Mostly I watched porn." He says, finally. "What about you?"

* * *

Mum's the better part of valor.


	17. the more things change

Happy Mojito Sunday!

There were supposed to be a couple more 'moments' in this, but I doubt I'm ever going to go back and add them.

That being said.

This is a 'post-relationship' mini-fic, little snapshots of Derek and Casey after they've jumped headfirst into Dasey.

* * *

There are awkward moments.

Like the time Derek calls her his 'sexy kid sister' while he's ordering for her at a restaurant, or that one time Casey tries to hold his hand and (as his habits, once established, become immortal and refuse to die) he reacts by panicking and shoving her away.

Into a parking meter.

(It probably doesn't help that he laughs at her, calls her a klutz, and then tries to cop a feel when she demands an apology.)

* * *

There are new moments.

A couple of weeks ago, for his birthday, when he'd gotten back from a particularly grueling practice, he'd stepped into his apartment to the surprising sight of Casey, perched on his sofa in the darkness, dimly illuminated by a small army of candles. He perceives, through eyes still adjusting to the gloom, that she's (barely) wearing the most scandalous scrap of a teddy ever manufactured, and he feels cold, hard resignation settle ominously into his chest (he thinks this probably means that he has to keep her now, _forever_), somewhere near to where his heart is currently pounding out of control at the image of this new, fascinating, _bold_ Casey.

His first thought is that he has been a _very good boy_ this year, and he beelines for her.

Nothing's ever simple with this woman, though, not for him.

When he drops to his knees at her feet, she spreads her hands in an elegant gesture, like some sort of sensual divinity, come to earth to grant his every (sordid) wish, and then his eyes alight on the box of pizza to the left of her and the remote to her right. He meets her gaze steadily, one eyebrow thrown high in question.

"It's your birthday, darling, and you deserve only the best." She smiles warmly, benevolently, and he knows immediately to Be Afraid. "Unfortunately, you haven't behaved well enough to deserve _all_ of the best, so you can only choose one."

If he had realized he was falling in love with _Satan_, he'd (probably) have tried to stop himself.

"…_what_ sort of person _are you_?"

She ignores him.

"Playoff hockey game," her fingertips graze the remote, "Mellow's pizza," her fingers steeple on the box, "or…" She indicates herself, smile notching up to Sadistic, and he comes to the grim conclusion that he is now her _bitch_.

(Shockingly, much later, he will decide he's pretty okay with it.)

Still, for the moment, he can only glower anxiously, furiously at each of the proffered gifts, trying to understand how to unlock the magical door that leads to him having all _three_.

(He knows his turmoil only makes her more powerful, but this may well be the most difficult decision he's ever had to make, and anyway, maybe the key is to suffer visibly, to _feed_ the terrifying monster's dark appetite.)

* * *

There are difficult moments.

"No kids." He says, in a final-sounding sort of way. (Which has never so much as made her blink in the past, so why should it have any effect today?)

"Why not?"

"Do you want _a_ reason, or the many hundred-millions of them I have filed away for just this very occasion?" He smiles cheerlessly at her, intending harsh cruelty to discourage her from having this conversation –now or _ever_.

"You can list as many as you'd like. I'll help if you'd like. One _huge_ reason not to start a family is that _you'd_ be the father in this scenario, and inflicting your genetics on the next generation would be both cruel and unusual." (What the hell? Did she want kids or didn't she?)

"Great. Glad we…agree, then." He flips the television back on.

"Others include that you're on the road a lot, that I'm pretty wrapped up in my work, that we'd probably have to move out of this apartment and into a more permanent dwelling, that I'm fairly certain I'd have to take care of the baby myself since you very nearly adhere to the chair these days…" He's staring up at her in horror. He can't see where this is going, but he knows she's about to make her Absurdly Compelling finishing argument, followed by an arbitrary verdict which will not include any portion of his opinion, in part or in whole.

Blind panic spurs him onward.

"Right. All those reasons. Plus the other reasons, like you getting fat and cranky and crazy. –_er_. Crazi_er_. Also the part where we eventually have to explain to the kid that our parents are _married_ and the two of us _share a sibling_ and are _legally related_."

"Oh, right, there's all that, too." She's still smiling at him, as openly and candid as ever. "Derek, my sweet, pitiful idiot, there are always a million reasons not to have a child. But please, allow me to break down the essential position for you:" here she pauses to set her hand against his shoulder, "I want a baby, and you're going to give me one. And that's really all there is to it."

"No-no-no-no-no-no, Casey. That is the opposite of how this works." He's much better at denying her things when she isn't touching him, so he shimmies away from her soft fingers and focuses hard on the tv. "It's not happening. End of story."

After several moments of blessed quiet,

"Deeee-reeeek…"

He snaps.

"_No_, dammit. _NO_!"

Her smile is damn near angelic.

"My boobs'll probably get bigger."

He flips off the television.

"…you are the _devil_."

* * *

I think I'm probably rounding out my LwD obsession at this point; I still love the show, of course, but I haven't had the same motivation to write fic recently as I did at the beginning. Also, I've become rather enamored with "True Blood" of late, and chances are good I'll be turning out some Eric and/or Godric fic soon. Because, _DAMN._

Anyway.

Yes, I am planning to finish up _USteps_. It might be a little while, but it _will_ be resolved. I've only got three chapters left, and I'm not just going to leave it hanging there forever. Promise.

Thanks much, chums, for all the love. It's been swell and then some.

(Also: I'm not totally swearing off the fandom. I'm still planning to read fic for LwD, and if new inspiration strikes...well. Who'm I to deny it a chance at life?)


	18. villany precinct

Behold, as I begin cleaning out my LwD desk, dusting things off and handing them in As They Are (however poorly they've been scrawled onto the page), with what may appear to you to be an Open Disdain for proof-reading and context.

Here are a few snippets from an AU I'd started to write (I didn't get far; only ten or so pages) featuring Derek as a police detective and Casey as his prime suspect. (Truman, we later find out, is the actual culprit. I was thinking he could be guilty of embezzlement, fraud, grand theft auto, Untoward Snarking, and -throughout the course of the story- eventually murder. Ooh-la-la.) The step-sibling issue was removed, of course, but anything happening between them would still be 'forbidden,' so to speak, due to the nature of their Cop-Potential Perpetrator relationship. I liked the dynamic a lot.

It never quite panned out, though, and now I suppose it probably never will.

* * *

I. _(set during an initial interrogation scene)_

"So why a police officer, then?"

"It's all in the danger element, princess."

"Don't call me 'princess.'" Derek ignores her in favor of checking her out while he secures her to the chair. The lock snicks loudly into place amidst the quiet that settles between them.

"And the handcuffs certainly don't hurt."

"_Pig_." She snarls, and her nose scrunches cutely.

"You would not _believe_ the amount of action this badge gets me."

"Ugh. It just figures that you'd be lascivious and perverted on _top_ of being inane and insufferable."

"I'd be careful, princess. Let's remember which one of us has the upper-hand here." He smirks, patting her head patronizingly. As he'd guessed, she doesn't appear to enjoy that one bit.

"Oh, great. Now you're _power-tripping_. People like _you_ are the reason the justice system is so inherently flawed—"

"Save the lecture, princess."

"Stop calling me _princess_!"

"Would you prefer 'hellcat?'"

* * *

II. _(set during the same interrogation scene)_

"Speaking of which…"

"I hope you know I'm going to be reporting to my lawyer the _blatant_ sexual harassment—"

"Woah, woah, woah, Miss MacDonald,"

"_Mc_Donald, you incompetent—"

"Just settle down and relax. That wasn't a line, and if you'd _give_ me five seconds to get a word in edgewise, you'd have known that." She looks at him skeptically until something seems finally to give and she takes a deep, cleansing breath. He wonders distractedly if this grudging acquiescence to authority would transfer into her…bedroom habits.

He decides he'd very much like to find out.

"_Fine_. What were you going to say, _Detective_ Venturi." The way she sneers the title makes him almost giddy. He sets his pen against the notepad on the table and appraises her seriously. Casey McDonald's eyes are impossibly blue in this sickly-yellow room, fairly glimmering with challenge. He can't take his eyes off of her, he realizes suddenly, uncomfortably.

"Just need to know if you have any sisters."

"Wha-what?"

"They're people directly related to you, sharing the same set of parents, female, hopefully perky—"

"I know what a sister _is_, you morally bankrupt buffoon. _How_ is this knowledge _relevant_ to the investigation?" He can't quite wrap his mind around how easy she is to rile, and it's equally worrying how _much_ pleasure he derives from her flushed indignation.

"Well, if she's of an appropriate age and hot, then I intend to investigate her...thoroughly." She makes a lunge for his throat and he's glad he decided to handcuff her to the chair (now for reasons reaching beyond his formidable enjoyment of restraining hot women).

"You leave Lizzie_ alone_!"

"Lizzie, eh? Sounds like a vixen."

* * *

III. _(in an alleyway, hiding from pursuers, Casey doesn't realize Derek's been stabbed, and he's keeping mum about the matter)_

Casey's heart is thumping madly in her chest when he leans forward to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing labored and heavy, the sound harsh and abrasive and loud, far too loud, and then her hands are on his face (he's so, _so_ hot, and her fingers slide against his perspiration-slick cheeks) and his eyes are blazing at her in the darkness, and she pulls up onto her toes and presses a soft kiss to his sweating palm, pressed firmly over her mouth to keep her quiet.

Something wild and angry flashes in his eyes, but his hand falls away from her one ponderous moment later, balling into a fist and smacking into the wall beside her as he jerks her forward, kissing her hard, fingers tangling in her hair and drawing her impossibly closer (but _not close enough_), sweeping down the back of her neck, over her exposed shoulders, whispering across her collarbone and _squeezing_ when they encounter the sensitive flesh of her breasts. Derek's shaking so badly she's afraid he might go into shock, but he's nevertheless deft and hot and worshipful, his mouth consuming, his hands bold as they slip underneath her skirt to explore.

His hands are rough, fingertips ridged with calluses, palms coarse, and it registers poignantly because she finds it so at odds with what she'd expected, because these are a man's hands (the realization is as abrupt as it is horrifying) –and they belong to _Derek Venturi_.

Derek's hands are supposed to be smooth, accordingly soft from long years of idle habits, but they are instead demanding and eager, evidence of his trials as a detective abraded into his very skin.

Her head knocks back against the wall painfully when he suddenly palms her, and he follows her, swallowing the surprised whimper that tries to escape with his lips.

Unconsciously, lost in the moment, she grinds against his hand, wanting –_that_—again, her fingers biting into his flesh while she tries to entice and encourage him with her teeth and tongue against the sensitive lobe of his ear. He growls her name and steps into her, and she feels the firm press of his arousal against her stomach, and things are flying out of control when his finger flicks nimbly over wet cloth; she's helpless to stop herself from closing her hands around him through the fabric of his slacks, and then he—

--passes out.

For several seconds, she doesn't react at all, except to stare down at him in shock, panting from the recent exertion, but eventually, through the fog of her thoughts, one breaks through with ringing clarity: _that_ has certainly never happened before.

And that's when she sees the blood.

* * *

IV. _(Derek and Casey, arguing in the hospital after he awakens from a coma he'd been stabbed into)_

"What—you—_you_ started it!"

"Did we get transported to a world where you _kissing me_ is somehow my fault?" Her mouth drops open in what is clearly outrage, which is especially vexing for him since it appears to be genuine.

"You were—there were…signals! You were all 'I'll protect you' and holding me and…and _breathing_ on me!" He glowers at her, and even this little movement is excruciating.

"I was _delirious _from my injuries, obviously. And of _course_ I was _breathing on you_! I was right in front of you and I'd just been _stabbed_!"

* * *

Voila, lovelies.

Off to coffee now.


	19. when bad meets worse

A 'Deleted Scene' from the most recent chapter of _USteps_ (ch. 12).

Initially, I'd planned for Derek and Casey to run across each other and have a brief confrontation, but in the end I thought it'd be better for Prolonged Angst-ification if they didn't meet before Derek happened upon the Casey-Dmitri incident in the hallway.

So here's the lead-in to the aforementioned altercation (which was never actually written).

* * *

Thus far, despite her stubborn, cold-shouldered defiance (and his waning interest in things like sleeping and personal hygiene), he's managed to keep the Shit and the Fan firmly on opposite sides of the room since the two seem eternally incapable of surviving an encounter without making a huge mess, and frankly he'd rather just skip that altogether, thanksmuch.

His script writers, meanwhile (the lot of them apparently malicious little fucks), seem to have come to a different sort of conclusion –namely, that it'd be _hysterical _to arrange a meeting between the aforementioned parties.

(The Shit and the Fan again cross paths and it is inevitably unpretty.)

* * *

It's cold. It's cold 'cause it's Canada and it's always cold, but damn it, it's _cold_. And he's exhausted. And he's been running laps around the university for the past half hour with the rest of the team. And it's seven a.m. (Derek does not subscribe to the more conventional linear model of time. If questioned, he will insist that nothing outside the hours between noon and four a.m. actually even exist. Which makes this new morning run thing both an affront to his sensibilities as well as a challenge to some of his more fundamental beliefs. Someone is screwing with the very _foundations_ of his universe.)

And because he's miserable and half-dead and feeling particularly belligerent, because he's thirsty and haggard and hasn't shaved yet today and it's absolutely the _worst time_ for it, he sees Casey jog by across the courtyard, apparently _also_ out for a morning run. Of her own volition. Before the mysterious, invisible jackass in his chest gives his heart a couple of experimental squeezes, his (never dormant) Casey Instincts kick in automatically and he rolls his eyes. (Only she would _choose _this torture over sleeping in.)

She doesn't look up, hardly even seems aware of the pack of boys as they pass opposite her, and he can't go harass her –er, say hello, because this run is, in fact, merely the precursor to the day's practice, and he _has_ to be there. Starters don't miss practice, his coach frequently insists, one eye menacingly narrowed and leveled invariably in Derek's direction. And he's already on thin ice from The Incident as it is (who knew that assaulting a member of your own team would be received so poorly?). He can't afford to beg off now.

He really, _really_ can't.

Casey's ponytail whips left as she disappears behind the fountain, and he swears loudly as he turns to follow her.

* * *

Yep.


	20. reasonable line of inquiry

More old junk from the archives.

Rah.

* * *

"Have you had sex?" She stares at him. And he knows in the exact moment that the words (unexpectedly) leave his lips that he's interested in knowing the answer. Which means that he's not sure one way or the other what the answer _is_. Which probably in and of itself means whole bunches of other things, not the least of which is him being unsure how to feel if she hasn't. Or (perhaps more importantly) if she _has_. Or why he cares about any of these things at all.

"…what?" She bunts her gaze to her sweatpants, where her fingers are nervously smoothing down fabric. He wants her to look at him and when she does he wishes she'd stop. Then she clears her throat, "I don't see how that's any of _your_ business."

"Of _course_ it's my business." Derek says, too quickly, and doesn't blink before he's recovering. "You're…" He makes it overly obvious that this idea disgusts him just exactly as much as it should, "_family_, after all." Next he shudders for effect. "Or…something." He's surprised at how suddenly effortless it is to stay focused on the thread of the conversation.

"So…so what if I have?" It rankles him that he can't tell whether her discomfiture comes from the diffidence of discretion or merely the awkwardness of discussing _this_ topic. (With _him_.)

So he's agitated when he leans toward her, invading her personal space, and she jerks backward out of careful habit.

"Answer the question." He commands dangerously, and he hopes he's not slurring too much, hopes she's not reading anything into this, hopes unexpectedly, shockingly that she'll say '_no_,' (with a healthy dose of righteous conviction) and remain the annoying beacon of All That is Prudish and Uptight and Pure(ly Irritating) that she's always been, the Prim&Proper poster-child for an entire generation of stuffy, virtue-obsessed abstinence harpies.

(He doesn't know how it happens, but there is suddenly no other acceptable answer.)

"I," she swallows thickly and accidentally meets his eyes "have, actually." And even though her gaze skips right over his and lands on the angry red pizza stain on the sofa, for all intents and purposes _glued_ there (a glaring tell), Casey McDonald has just admitted to having had sex with Someone (who isn't _him_) and he's powerless against the breathless ache that starts throbbing with painful, searing intensity in his chest, until every ragged gasp is like inhaling fire, nearly choking him.

"You're _lying_." He says (or pleads-- inflection is relative, anyway), willing it to be true.

Casey lets out a long, low, exasperated breath and folds her arms crossly over her chest.

"Yeah, well, so?" (_What_?) "I don't see why you feel the need to make me feel _guilty_ about my virginity." Derek can only define the cresting swell of relief as _euphoria_. "Promiscuity is _not_ a virtue, Derek, though if it were, I'm sure you'd be—"

He kisses her (or attacks her --romance is relative, anyway), and the insult dies in a shocked yelp against his lips.

* * *

In case you were wondering, Derek was marginally tipsy during the filming of this scene.

Hence his...rather extreme reactions.

Also, I have just discovered samosas.

Dear GAWD in heaven.


	21. a veritable menagerie

I tried to sell my used 'Minoans' textbook back to the university store today, only to discover that they wouldn't take it because I'd written this drabble on page 58.

In permanent marker.

Totally forgot about it 'til I was denied the $6.84 I was owed from the initial $30 purchase.

(I returned an hour later and sold it back to the store via a newbie cashier who didn't bother to check for miscellaneous defilements. Some lucky kid is going to get more than he/she bargained for --an authoritative hystory of palatial Crete AND a _particularly_ meaningless bit of LwD-verse fiction.)

* * *

***ahem***

Oh, look at that.

It's everyone he's ever known.

Reflecting varying degrees of revulsion, horror, and disgust, --or conversely-- delight, amusement, and sick gratification, what appears to him to be the entire population of London is hovering in silent (stalker-ish and intrusive) appraisal of the Sensational Event that is Derek-and-Casey waging a wholly _new_ sort of war backstage.

Maddeningly, not one of the (many, _many_) faces demonstrates anything even remotely resembling surprise.

Peripherally, he sees Edwin slap an undisclosed amount of money into Lizzie's palm. (The wad is very nearly the size of her fist, and Derek experiences a moment of irritated wonder that Ed's managed to keep such a substantial sum hidden from him.)

Sam is wearing a rueful smile, shaking his head faintly from side to side. Two of his (eight-hundred) sisters flank him, a pair of huge, disgusting twin grins stretching out with obscene languor on their faces.

Nora looks somewhat shell-shocked, and his dad's face is even now as he's watching falling resignedly, exasperatedly into his hands with an audible groan. Marti, attached at the skirt to Casey's mother, is beaming like only little girls can, in the bright, face-splitting sort of way that portends an imminent explosion of giggles and song. He estimates that he has precious few seconds before she starts twirling in giddy circles to the tune of 'k-i-s-s-i-n-g!'

Ralph looks happily confused, which in truth is more or less his perpetual reality, but even the Papadapolis Singularity does not appear to be at all astonished at what Derek's planning to remember as The Great Calamity.

Emily's expression says something vaguely along the lines of, 'I _told_ you so,' and is aimed explicitly in Casey's direction. Then the Conniving Miss Davis slides him a sly look and winks at him.

Eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious, he turns back to the girl whose ass currently owns both of his hands. Casey smiles up at him sheepishly, and it dawns on him that her (horrifying) 'spontaneous' solicitation had in fact been…premeditated.

Casey McDonald had just tried to _seduce_ him!

(The _minx_!)

This unhappy intelligence is going to complicate his unfortunate attraction to his (preposterously hot) step-sister _exponentially._

"Derek," she begins, backpedaling in desperation.

In response, he grins affably down at her, dusts a chaste kiss across her (problematically soft) lips, and then unceremoniously drops her, springing away in the next instant and pointing down at her in accusation,

"She started it!"

* * *

On pg. 58, this drivel was entitled: 'what chicanery through yonder window breaks?'

Menagerie and Chicanery were forced to duel to the death in a no-holds-barred cage match and...well. Obviously one of them had to lose.

(thanks much for the many glorious reviews, chums. ^_^)


	22. perilous perspicacity

(this was initially entitled 'at least as hysterical as me stabbing you in the throat,' but alas! the title was too long and had to be changed. damn you, ffnet. damn you.)

The timelines for the first couple of seasons weren't made entirely clear, so I'm not certain how much time was meant to have passed between one season and the next, but this is supposed to take place sometime during the first season, before Casey and Sam get together, and after Sam learns that Casey is Derek's step-sib.

Also. LOOKIE, I'm apparently capable of writing (something so blippie I doubt it even counts) about OTHER characters apart from just Derek and Casey!

TRIUMPH.

* * *

"It's a good thing she's so freakishly hot, or I'd have had to have her 'taken care of' already, if you catch my drift." Derek takes a long, sideways pull of his soda from the straw, his eyes focused on the busty waitress bending to retrieve a fallen ticket across the restaurant. After a long moment of what he eventually realizes is turning into one of those Uncomfortable Silence ma-jiggers, he pans his gaze back toward Sam. Who is staring at him with a blank intensity that is as singularly indecipherable as it is unnerving. "_What_, man?"

"Do you even hear yourself when you speak?"

"I usually trust my savvy charm well enough to steer me clear of the tricky stuff, so no, not really." He says, tracking over the last bits of their conversation while he –once again—borrows his brain for a separate venture and just lets his mouth do its own thing. "Although years of careful honing has—" He stops dead, his mind at last locating the 'tricky stuff' inadvertently wedged into his most recent Casey Commentary.

"Has what? Made it virtually impossible to slip up everyone once in a while like the rest of us lowly peasants?" Sam looks perfectly serene as he tucks into his dessert, apparently unconcerned about the matter of his Imminent Demise.

"I've had people killed for less than what you're implying, Sammy-boy."

"What is it you think I'm implying?" Sam wants to know, smile swelling obscenely, eyes fairly glimmering with smug perception. "Because if you think I'm trying to insinuate that you're attracted to your step-sister, then I'm absolutely—" Derek brandishes his plastic spork with menacing admonition, which does not have the desired effect of making Sam cower in blind terror. It does, however, at least immediately put end to the impertinent assumption he'd been on the verge of communicating. "Kidding. I'm absolutely kidding." He finishes, with a self-satisfied grin that suggests quite the opposite.

Derek decides to let the uncharacteristic insolence of his Right Hand slide, ready to move past the issue at once and on to more important things, such as his promising Naked Future with the yet-nameless perky waitress flouncing from table to table, armed with a charmingly vacuous smile and a truly inspiring rack.

While he's going over his game plan in his head, he happens to catch the ominous gleam in Sam's eyes just as his best friend opens his mouth to speak,

"That's kind of why I was thinking of asking Casey out myself."

All thoughts of Busty Waitress spill promptly out of his skull, and when he can breathe past the wave of nausea that twists in his gut and burns, acid-bitter, up into his throat, he unclenches the fingers that have unconsciously fisted into his thighs through his jeans and beams winningly back at Sam, who looks suddenly concerned and somewhat repentant.

"_That_ is a funny joke." He says meaningfully (which is interesting since he isn't sure what 'meaning' he's intending), and Sam is silent for one exceedingly long, extremely uncomfortable moment.

Then,

"Y-yeah, man. Hilarious." This time, the subject does not resurface.

…until two months later, when Sam and Casey start dating.

* * *

I've actually got a dialogue between Derek and Truman in the wings, as well, quivering with fear at the anticipated editing process, during which the entirety of it may be nixed in shame.

PEPPERMINT coffee. WHAT will they think of next?


	23. the madness gradient

I once had a dream about the McDonald-Venturis on Jerry Springer.

Here is the product of that horrifying vision.

Delightfully crack from start to finish.

* * *

"Hockey is not a '_farce_,' sis."

"Step-sis," Casey, Edwin, and Lizzie proclaim, in stereo.

The audience exchanges one collective, significant glance. Jerry's wearing a shrewd, discerning expression that Derek mistrusts entirely.

"Then explain to me why you have to don the Stay-Pufft costume and twirl around on _razorblades_ chasing around a huge, slippery black spot." She demands imperiously, huffing as she folds her arms across her midsection.

"It's vulcanized rubber, Case." Derek insists, willfully ignoring the way this new arrangement buoys and accentuates her chest, "_Vulcanized Rubber_._"_

"Is that a _Star Trek_ reference?" Lizzie wonders innocuously from her seat.

"I think he's talking about birth control." Nora contributes good-naturedly.

"What's 'birth control?''' Marti pipes suddenly, once again (in the dreadfully forthright way of little children) intuitively selecting the most awkward part of the exchange about which to be curious.

Derek buries his face in his hands with a pained groan, not missing the sly humor that schmoozes its way onto Casey's visage before he does.

* * *

You thought it couldn't be done, didn't you?

Well.

Next time, you'll _know better._

I love you all (nearly) as much as I love that first sip of Java Goodness first thing in the morning.


	24. conspicuous ironicus

A crash course, loves, on Situational Irony.

(This one-shot is Unstuck in time, though --hopefully-- it's obvious it's meant to be happening while C&D are still in high school.)

Nora POV.

* * *

"George," Casey begins, gravely.

"Nora," Derek echoes, arms crossed, chin lowered.

"Casey, Derek." Nora responds, wary as she sets her mug of tea on the sofa table. Beside her, George looks faintly curious.

"We need to talk with you." Casey meets her mother's eyes with shaky resolve. Derek flips the remote at the television and deftly switches it off.

_This is it_, Nora thinks, and crowds back somewhat into the couch cushions, fingers squeezing light, telling pressure into George's knee. He regards her inquisitively, reading her silent communication about as slowly she expects, then flicking his gaze back toward their children, eyes wide.

"There's something we need to tell you, something…really important." Casey meets Derek's eyes for a brief moment, and he nods at her, a somber, grim gesture for her to continue.

_This is definitely it_. Nora allows herself a deep breath, bracing herself for the forthcoming news (which in reality isn't so much 'news' at all).

"This has been going on for a while, in secret, and we just thought we should bring it to your attention so that…appropriate measures can be taken to prevent any…unnecessary incidents." Nora wants desperately to believe that what Casey has in mind when she says 'unnecessary incidents' is nowhere even _remotely_ in the neighborhood of 'unwanted pregnancies.' "What I mean by that, of course, is that we want to be responsible and make sure no one gets hurt." (Thank goodness for her sweet, innocent, wonderful daughter's Clarity Compulsions.) "And believe me, mom, George, the only reason we haven't mentioned this sooner is because we wanted to be sure something was actually…well, happening."

"And something…_is_ happening." Nora infers gently. Derek bumps his shoulder lightly against Casey's, a clear message that she should Get On With It, Already, to which Casey responds with an acidic glare and an elbow to his gut. Nora looks on worriedly. This cannot be a healthy relationship.

"We're pretty sure." Derek wheezingly contributes, absently shoving Casey as he recovers. She stumbles sideways a couple of steps and balls her hands into fists at her sides.

They have now arrived at the Inevitable Detour. She settles more comfortably against her husband, and he combs his fingers once, twice through her hair. (Oh, that feels nice…)

"De-_rek_! We agreed we'd do this _without_ me needing to muzzle you!"

"You mean 'you' agreed, Case. _You_. The only thing _I_ agreed to was you financially sponsoring my dinner." She's vaguely aware of Casey poking Derek in the chest, hard enough that he actually stumbles back a step. Mostly, though, she's occupied making veiled, naughty insinuations at George.

"Um, _hello_, do you not remember that whole _conversation_ thing we had _before_ I was forced to br –er—_persuade _you into coming down to support me?"

"You mean that half-hour or so you spent blabbing and _I_ spent tuning you out, wondering which toppings I'd choose when you delivered on your part of the _bribe_—"

"I did not _bribe_ you, you despicable jerk! It was a legitimate business transaction –payment for services rendered! But you can _forget_ me paying for _anything_ if you can't even be bothered to hold up your end of the _deal_." When, peripherally, she sees Derek begin to bear down on Casey, she decides it's probably time to intervene.

You know, _before_ they end up on the floor, tearing off each others' clothing.

"Not to interrupt this stirring dialogue," Nora interrupts, "but are we going to arrive at a point any time soon, or can Georgie and I get back to our movie until you two have sorted things out?" Casey and Derek turn their heads toward her at the same time, a jarring, startled movement that indicates that they'd forgotten (yet again) they weren't alone.

This is only one of the many, many, _many_ reasons it's going to be difficult for her to muster a suitably scandalized reaction to their imminent 'Breaking News.'

"Um," Derek says.

"Sorry for Derek," Casey says, folding her arms and turning fully back to them. Nora pretends she doesn't catch the brief, smoldering look Derek slants at her daughter. "He's a moron. No offense, George." George's smile, already well-settled, broadens good-naturedly. His amusement is quick to rub off on her, and she finds herself grinning with him.

"_Anyway_," Derek prompts, leaning in closer to Casey than is really appropriate.

"Yes, anyway," Casey starts again, huffing. "While we understand that there's nothing necessarily, er…_wrong_ with this situation –legally, at least—there's still the likelihood that this'll go extraordinarily wrong in all sorts of other ways; there are _feelings_ at stake," Nora feels George chuckling silently beside her when Derek makes a show of rolling his eyes, "and the potential for…improprieties, which I believe may set an inappropriate example for Marti," (not to mention Ed and Lizard, Nora mentally appends, briefly apprehensive that Casey hadn't thought to include them in her appeal), "and we," Casey lays her hand lightly at Derek's elbow, and Nora notes with interest the way he tenses (nearly) imperceptibly, darting a cursory (definitely alarmed) glance down at the appendage before he snaps back to Cool & Aloof, "…well, frankly, we're just concerned that the, um, the parties in question might not be fully…_prepared_ for–or even old enough to really be _aware_ of—the various repercussions of getting caught up in such a complicated, precarious relationship." Casey's body language signals to Nora that her daughter is far from finished, and so she judiciously reserves comment. Some half a second later, her intuition is rewarded. "The psychological ramifications alone should be enough to discourage this sort of behavior, at least until the co-habitation issue's no longer a factor, and that's not even taking into account the social stigma of—"

"Spacey," Derek interjects, now definitely invading Casey's personal space as he slings an arm around her shoulders and slouches against her, laying his opposite hand at her hip and speaking directly into her ear, "they don't need the full dissertation. Maybe you just hit the high points, so we can move on to the part of this bribe where you buy me food—" Casey turns to snarl in Derek's face.

"_De-rek_!" She snaps, inadvertently closing the distance between them still further. Nora feels suddenly as if she's intruding, and shares a sidelong glance with George. "What part of '_I'll handle the talking_' don't you understand? Should I make a _diagram_ for you?" Derek pretends to consider this seriously.

"That might help." He admits finally, grinning. "You can work on that while I call the pizza guy—"

George clears his throat loudly, and once again, both teens jump guiltily, and then, after a hasty assessment of their proximity, spring apart. Nora decides to spare them further indignity (a charitable move on her part, she thinks) by brushing casually past the episode and moving back to the matter at hand.

"It's good that you decided to discuss this 'relationship' with us, Miss Case. I'm proud of you." She smiles fondly, and senses that Georgie is, with great difficulty, suppressing laughter. "It shows great maturity."

"Yes." He snorts, and she shakes her head in rueful amusement. "That. Maturity."

"Why don't you tell me, Casey, what _is_ happening, to the best of your knowledge. We can start there, and try to come up with workable solutions as we go."

"Well, you see," Casey looks abruptly rather uncomfortable, "there's been nothing…_explicit_, so to speak, though they –that is to say, the two individuals involved—spend an inordinate amount of time together, and much of _that_ time is spent behind closed doors, usually in the games closet;" Nora experiences a moment of confusion (and worry), suddenly compelled to wonder if she's missed something somewhere, "they're constantly scheming in private," ('_they_?') "and that's just here at home, that's just what we _know_ about, there's no way to tell what happens when they're at _school_—"

"Wait, what?" George puts voice to Nora's budding uncertainty.

"Huh?"

"It's…" Nora begins, "it just…it almost sounds like you're talking about Lizzie and Ed instead of—"

Casey cuts in,

"Mom, we _are_ talking about Lizzie and Edwin." Nora blinks stupidly.

"...come again?"

"Who'd you _think_ we were talking about," Derek waves a hand dismissively between himself and her first-born, "me and _Casey_?" Georgie's oldest laughs at the foolishness of this notion, and Casey just rolls her eyes.

"Casey and _me_, Derek. Casey and _me_." Casey corrects automatically, the both of them apparently content to gloss right over the Explosive Assumption, blissful as they are in their Unconsciously-Deliberate, Acutely-Ingrained Ignorance.

"Yeah, whatever, keener."

"Whatever, indeed." Nora mutters, face sinking into her hands in exasperation. George makes an incredulous noise beside her.

"You mean, you mean you two _aren't_ admitting to—"

"Georgie," Nora intercedes gently, firmly, before he can clue either of their children into their mutual, hopeless oblivion. "Let's hear them out. Perhaps," she reflects, looking pointedly from Derek to Casey and back again, "perhaps we will _all_ learn something new today."

* * *

hardy-har-har.

Hear-hear for misconceptions!

You know, it's much, _much _less hassle to just keep adding new stuff to this scrap heap than it is to create all new stories.

I make no apologies for my incorrigible laziness.


	25. sexual tension for dummies

Inspired by what I _believe_ is my SEVENTH re-watching of the season 4 episode entitled _'Ralph and Casey?!'_

The events of this mini-fic take place at some point between when Derek tells Ralph to 'go for it' with Casey and when Casey comes downstairs, wearing what would appear to be DEREK'S CLOTHING and looking hard-core disheveled, on a mission to send Ralphie-dearest running for the hills.

Meanwhile.

EreshkigalGirl, I LOVE YOU, YOU MAKE MY LIFE COMPLETE.

Also, lots of reviewing and catching up to do STILL, and I have no timeframe for when these things will happen, but they WILL, by knee-socks, they _*will_.* (This includes _USteps_ porn.)

READ ON, BROTHAS.

* * *

"Okay, so here's the deal." Derek begins, ignoring her squeak of surprise when he smashes through her bedroom door (as per usual, without permission). "We're gonna need you to be as repulsive as possible." He appraises her thoughtfully. "Shouldn't be that hard," he declares matter-of-factly, nodding faintly, chin in hand. Casey scowls venomously and socks him in the arm while he's busy mentally undressing her.

And, um.

You know.

_Re_dressing her.

In his clothes.

But only because, uh. They're all smelly and unclean and repulsive-like. Which is what they're going for.

Obviously.

* * *

After he explains his Brilliant Plan to discourage Ralphie's affections, she grudgingly agrees that the idea's not half-bad, "even if it is hackneyed and lacking in imagination," a (totally bogus) claim he's sure she only makes to provoke him.

The wry smile she tilts toward him when she flounces past only cements this notion.

She'll regret it later, he vows, when he fastens all her furniture to the ceiling –except maybe her bed, which he's planning to install on the roof.

* * *

There's something distinctively unnerving about watching Casey routing around in his closet; not unpleasant, necessarily, just…you know, sort of…_surreal_. Not something he ever expected to witness firsthand, and certainly not an activity he could ever have anticipated he'd be _participating_ in.

Obviously, this isn't the first time she's been forced (by circumstances he'd engineered –intentionally or otherwise) to navigate the treacherous innards of his closet, but he's never been here for the Culling Process.

It's a little harrowing.

He makes it to Potential Repulsive-Appropriate Candidate Outfit Twelve before something in his mind finally snaps from the strain. (And not just because the rumpled shirt she's laying flat against her chest is the one he'd worn that wondrous evening he'd received his first hand job, either, although he's willing to concede that's probably a contributing factor.)

"Just _pick _something already, will ya? Anything'll do. It's _Ralph, _Case. You're thinking about this too much." She purses her lips at him and runs her fingers meditatively along the seam, and his stomach flops when her thumb and forefinger pinch against an old, fading stain.

"You would not _believe_ how often people tell me that." At long last, she appears to decide against this particular article, absently popping it onto a hanger before she returns to combing through the steaming wreckage of his wardrobe.

"Oh, I think I might." She throws a hanger at him which misses him by at least two provinces. He'd laugh at her atrocious aim if they weren't presently on a Mission. And maybe also if she'd stop pressing and folding his clothes when she's done with them. That's really beginning to freak him out.

He watches, rapt and disturbed, as Casey carefully selects, rejects, and then gradually returns to order the chaos of Derek Venturi's closet, a task he's relatively certain hasn't been attempted for at least as long as his dad's been nagging him to do it. So, like, fifteen years?

"Casey," he inadvertently clears his throat on the latter half of her name, and she shifts him this weird, considering look that makes him feel anxious and edgy. Her eyes follow him to his bed, where he bends to retrieve a blue shirt and a pair of athletic pants lying in a crumpled mess on his comforter, and he pretends he isn't painfully aware of her scrutiny when he tosses the bundle at her head. "This'll do."

"Didn't you wear these…_last night_?" She would know, he reflects briefly; they'd spent a good long while tussling in the hallway at some unspeakable hour of the morning for…actually, he can't remember what they'd been fighting about now, but it'd probably been important.

Maybe.

Unless it hadn't been.

…which is the more likely scenario.

"That's why they're perfect. You'll smell--" _like me_, he almost says, but thinks better of it, "--like you haven't showered for a couple days." Her face scrunches in distaste.

"Oh, that is _gross_, Derek. You haven't _bathed_ in a couple of _days_?"

"Water conservation is a serious matter, Case. Or haven't you been listening to Lizzie at dinner? Honestly, what kind of sister are you if you can't even support your baby sib's environmental enterprises?" She gapes at him stupidly for a satisfactorily long moment, reminding him why he bothers to occasionally remember such things in the first place. "Just put it on, Case. Ralphie's downstairs, pining away for you…" She looks like she wants to argue this point, but instead she relents.

"Ugh, _fine_. Out while I change, you Neanderthal. Out, out." She makes shooing motions with her hands, and he returns the favor of holding his tongue, which in his estimation is Monumentally Gracious, being that this is _his_ room and there is no precedent for him being so rudely expelled from it. By _anyone_. Ever.

There's also no precedent for (mostly) naked Caseys in his room, which he very carefully Doesn't Think About as he steps into the hallway.

* * *

When she finally invites him back in (by way of ripping open his door, casting a frantic glance left, right, left again, and grabbing him by his shirt collar and _jerking_ him inside, slamming the door behind them), she crosses her arms and scowls at him.

"Well?" He considers.

"The look's a start. Not too different from the way you usually look: disgusting, but it's a start. Now you just have to work on _being_ repulsive."

"Well, you're definitely the perfect coach for that."

"Thank you," he grins, proud. She rolls her eyes.

Following another quiet stretch of assessment, he approaches her and, deliberately withholding any sort of cautionary notification, places his hands on either side of Casey's face, fingers sliding back, into her hair, and it isn't until he (accidentally) hesitates that it dawns on her that she should be fighting this, and she snaps back with an outraged, 'De-REK!'

Undaunted, he orders her to hold still, reassures her that this's all for Ralphie's benefit, invites her amiably to please shut the hell up and let The Master work, even squeezes in a self-ingratiating,

"Lord of the Lies, remember? I know what I'm doing. _Trust_ _me_." To which she responds with a perfunctory (though no less heartfelt),

"Never." He smirks, amused.

"Just the same." And then he's back in her personal space, fingers tangled into her Very Soft hair, mussing and disheveling with what he can only describe as a sort of malignant euphoria. It's a heady feeling, curiously invigorating; he _likes_ that she's letting him personally spoil the diligent perfection of her appearance.

When he's finished tousling, he drags his fingers through the carnage, raking over her scalp and down, over her shoulder blades, finally pulling his hands away only very slowly, and a brief Look passes between them.

To break it, he grabs her hips and steers her abruptly toward his bed. Then he commands her to lie down and roll around on it for a minute or two. She stares at him, agape.

"Ex_cuse_ me?"

"Chillz, step-sib, this's all part of the plan. It'll give you that lovely budgeraggly look."

"You mean 'bedraggled?'"

"Whatever the kids are calling it these days. Now get to scruffing, McDonald."

She shoots him a dubious look before she finally moves to comply –albeit begrudgingly, 'ew-ew-_ew_'-ing all the way onto his mattress, looking positively revolted when she finally settles back onto his comforter, stiff as a board. He smiles fondly down at her.

"This," she squirms, "is _so…disgusting_."

"You're the only girl who thinks so." Casey ignores him.

"I don't…I don't think I can do this." Exasperated, he rolls his eyes and plunks down onto the bed beside her.

"Do ya' wanna get Ralphie to back off, or not?" She glares at him.

"I wouldn't _need_ to get Ralphie to back off if you hadn't _encouraged_ him to 'go for it.' I don't see why _you_ can't just take care of this since it's technically all your fault anyway."

"Casey, _I'm_ not the one who bewitched poor, helpless, gullible Ralph. That was _you_, remember?" He considers her disdainfully. "Though how you did that, I'll never know."

"I'll have you know I am _perfectly_ likeable."

"Yeah. You keep telling yourself that." Then, "Now, are we doing this, or what?" She glances at him in sudden alarm, perched as he is beside her on the mattress.

"Doing…doing _what_?" She wonders, tentative, unsure. When he pushes her back at the collar, she freezes. "Derek…" She gulps, breath shallowing. "I…I…"

"Relax, Case." He says soothingly, and she…she _does_. (He has _magic powers_!) He realizes his hand is still at her collar bone, that his fingers are stroking absently back and forth at the base of her throat. Horrified, he pulls his hand away and leaps to his feet, directing her to move already, they don't have all day, hop to, so on and so forth. He even offers to leave the room again, let her go over her Battle Plan in (relative) privacy while she's unkempt-ing.

A couple minutes later, she emerges from his bedroom, looking mussed, smelling like him, wearing his clothes.

When she asks him if he thinks she's ready, for a solid minute he's unable to respond at all.

Then, as if sent from on high, Ed and Liz pop out of their Command Center (the games' closet), and Derek curtly informs her that she looks truly horrifying, like something out of a nightmare, and Casey huffs at him as she spins on her heel and stomps downstairs to repulse Ralph.

* * *

There just isn't enough chocolate cake in this world.


	26. salting the wound

This was going to be part of a larger arc involving Derek's mother getting re-married, his Epic Retaliatory Downward Spiral, and Casey's attempt to "fix" him (which seemed a more comfortable option than "comforting" him) by way of making him fall in love with Sadia when the self-destruction begins in earnest --which inevitably backfires, catalyzing a Sex Explosion that surprises approximately No One.

Even had a tag lined up for it: "What part of tiny leather pants and fish-nets don't you understand, Case? Of _course_ I slept with her."

But all I've been able to write for it in the...Very Long Time it's been on my hard drive have been the Derek-making-out-with-Casey bits.

Plus this.

* * *

Derek knows she's there. His Casey Senses are tingling; the room smells suddenly of cake, and he feels the weight of unseen eyes pressing into him, watching.

Sudden inspiration strikes him; it's typically something he avoids, but he's willing to make all kinds of exceptions for his step-sister.

Sadia's saying something he's been mostly ignoring when he silently interjects, hoisting her up onto the counter and sliding her backward, teeth at her throat before she's fully settled, and he feels that aching-sweet stab of heat when he catches a glimpse of Her reflection in the kitchen window, a fault line of anguish stretched across her face. Sadia makes a low, drugged sound in the back of her throat when he tugs her forward, meeting her violently against the lip of the counter, eyes focused on the image of Casey, realizing she's being watched.

She stands stiff, frozen in terror, and he levels his gaze at her, heavy with impiety, holding her captivated as he cinches Sadia's legs around his waist and wedges into her, eliciting a sharp, startled noise and fingers clenched painfully in his scalp.

When he pries his eyes open again, several seconds later, he's alone in the window, and he smirks as he pulls himself out of Sadia's embrace, abruptly, indifferently.

He leans back against the counter, eyes burning through the empty space where Casey'd been standing seconds prior. Belatedly, he tilts a lazy grin up at Sadia.

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

* * *

Definitely still in high school, at home.

(And PDA's the "something" he typically avoids. In case anyone was wondering.)


End file.
